All my life

Aged 22

Sherrinford.

The Sherrinford situation was the first time he became aware of that person watching him.

That person lurking in the shadows.

John's blog, abandoned since he was ten, had restarted when he came to live with Sherlock. His therapist had suggested it, although Sherlock had immediately fired her upon finding out that she thought John's limp was due to a fear of danger. Completely idiotic to even consider it, he had told her. It was after John accompanied him on their first case together and John had, for the first time in four years, stopped limping as they sprinted through central London. It had been a waste of time and money.

Anyway, she had told John the blog would help him get over the limp. He was meant to write about his life on it, but upon moving in with Sherlock ten months previously he had taken to writing about their cases. Sherlock hadn't even realised John was doing this for about five months, and now he sniffed whenever John took out his laptop. When John was writing his blog, he wasn't concentrating on Sherlock, which was bad.

John was typing now, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Although it was after lunchtime (at least Sherlock thought so. He didn't know the exact time but John had eaten a bacon sandwich about half an hour before) Sherlock was dressed in only his blue robe and pyjama bottoms, lying in his chair with his robe open, exposing his pale chest. He was staring at the ceiling but it was so boring and the patter of the keys was so distracting he had to open his eyes and lift his head up, glaring at John, who ignored him totally.

'Bored.' Sherlock said loudly, hoping John would decide to do something interesting.

John continued ignoring him.

'BOOORRREEEDDD.' Sherlock almost shouted, sitting up in his chair and staring at John. 'JOHN! I'M BORED.'

John sighed and turned away from the computer. 'If you're bored, go get some milk. We've run out.'

Sherlock groaned. 'NO. That's even more boring.'

John had turned back to the computer. 'Clean up your experiments. Better yet, clear out the fridge. I'm so sick of opening it and seeing that- that head just staring back at me.'

'I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.' Sherlock said sulkily. John didn't reply, his attention on the computer.

Sherlock glared stormily at his flatmate's back before reaching to the table next to his chair and throwing the objects on it at the other man's back. 'BORED!' an orange hit John's spine. 'BORED!' the Daily Mail followed. 'BORED! BORED! BORED!' a wagon wheel, a toy helicopter and Sherlock's gun hit John but he continued ignoring Sherlock, who sighed and settled back in the chair, trying to enter his mind palace.

But little pictures of John covered everything.

Sherlock stood up and stomped over to John, standing behind the doctor and resting his hand on his right shoulder. 'I don't see why you're so focused on this. It's a stupid webpage. I'm so much more interesting, John.'

John didn't reply.
Sherlock's eyes flicked over the webpage. He hadn't really looked at it before and now he was even more unimpressed. At the top, Dr. John H Watson. Underneath some information, I'm a doctor. Ex-soldier. Currently living in London with an obnoxious arse who won't stop bugging me. If you're bored, Sherlock, tidy the body parts littering the flat.

Sherlock couldn't resist a smile pulling his mouth apart as he read the words. If John wasn't so damn cute, it would make the whole 'getting over your unrequited infatuation with John Watson' a lot easier.